


Yellow Silk

by Adina



Category: Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-01
Updated: 2006-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:03:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1643018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adina/pseuds/Adina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he were like any other man he wouldn't be Nero Wolfe.  Slash, Nero/Archie with hints of Nero/Archie/Fritz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Silk

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Katisha

 

 

"I am most sorry, Mr. Coulter."

It isn't often that Nero Wolfe, New York's foremost private investigator, says that he's sorry, less often even that he means it. The client seated in the red leather chair, a well-dressed man in his early forties, was not impressed if his thunderous expression was any indicator.

Wolfe leaned back in his specially designed, extra-wide desk chair. "The difficulty with proving that Charles Walker murdered your friend Joseph Hodges is that Mr. Hodges's death appears not to have been murder at all." He held up a hand to forestall Coulter's outburst. "Walker shot Hodges, there is little doubt of that, and in all probability we could even prove it to the satisfaction of twelve impartial citizens." He gave a moue of distaste. "The gun, however, was brought to their meeting place by Hodges himself, with the apparent intention of shooting Walker. At best we could expect a verdict of self-defense, at worst death by misadventure."

Coulter didn't seem the type to get physical, but I kept a wary eye on him all the same. "So Joe was just supposed to let that tick bleed him white?"

Wolfe steepled his forefingers together. "According to the statutes of the state of New York, Mr. Hodges should have approached the gendarmes with the matter and laid charges of blackmail against Walker." He waved that away with a hand. "Pfui. The law would have us all be fools. I doubt that Walker could be successfully prosecuted then or now without the nature of Mr. Hodges's--relationship--with you becoming known."

Coulter slumped low in his chair. I got up from my desk, mixing a whisky and soda, heavy on the whisky, and putting it on the little table at his elbow. "He'll ruin me. He ruined Joe, killed him--" Picking up the drink, he only stared into its depth, watching the bubbles rise as if mesmerized. When he finally looked up there was something in his eyes I didn't like. "I want to confront Walker. Here, tonight, with the police present."

Wolfe studied him, fingers once more steepled. "Both the police and Mr. Goodwin would have to stop you if you were to attempt violence against Mr. Walker."

Coulter spread his hands wide, palms up. "I have no intention of even touching that louse. No violence, I promise." He met Wolfe's gaze steadily until Wolfe nodded, and then drew out his checkbook. "I may not like how it turned out," he said as he wrote, "But at least I know how Joe died." He slide the check across the desk to Wolfe. "The laborer is worthy of his hire, doesn't the Bible say?"

"I've always striven to be worthy of my own," Wolfe said, not even objecting to being called a laborer, not that he had ever down any of the physical work. He heaved his considerable bulk to his feet, an exertion he has refused to make for the governor of New York and the richest woman in America, to name two. "We will endeavor to assemble Mr. Walker and Mr. Cramer here at nine P.M. if that is satisfactory."

Coulter stood as well. "Perfectly."

When I got back from seeing Coulter to the door, Wolfe was playing with the check, turning it over and over in his hands. Sliding it across to my desk he stood again. "After lunch take that to Mr. Coulter's bank and get it certified. I want it in our account before dinner."

***

Nero Wolfe, as most of the population of the state and city of New York knows by reputation, hates to have his routine interrupted almost as much as he hates having police in his home in any other capacity than passive observers of his carefully orchestrated ensembles in the office. Having the police keep him talking until well after midnight and spread out to infest--Wolfe's word--the entire lower floor of the house was particularly galling, and even I was getting tired of it.

The talk might have been okay if it hadn't been so repetitious: Had we seen Walker put anything in Coulter's drink? No. Had either of us seen our client put anything in his own drink? No. Had Walker been close enough to Coulter to poison his drink? Yes, Coulter had had his drink in hand when he called Walker a murdering bastard and promised to watch him fry.

It was all pretty routine once they found a handkerchief with cyanide residue on it in Walker's pocket. Coulter had been moved to the morgue, Walker to jail to await trial for murder, and Cramer's previous experience with Wolfe prevented him from trying to haul him downtown as a material witness. The opportunity to gloat at us for having a client murdered under our very noses and roof might have contributed to his forbearance.

Sometime after one in the morning they were done, allowing me to see them out and lock and chain the door behind them. When I returned to the office Wolfe was gone, so I continued my nightly rounds, making sure lights were out and doors and windows locked. Fritz was in the kitchen when I finished, mourning the loss of the highball glass police had taken as evidence, so I stayed a few minutes, drinking a glass of milk and jollying Fritz out of his sulk, before heading upstairs.

Climbing to the third floor, I took care of a few matters before returning to the second. Pressing a discreet button some ten feet from Wolfe's door, I waited for the telltale click that would tell me Wolfe had disarmed the alarms on his door and the floor around it. Wolfe's mood is never dependable, especially after an infestation of strangers, so I was prepared to be ignored. Instead the click came immediately, as if Wolfe's finger had been poised beside the button.

Wolfe had changed into his pajamas already, treating me to the sight of a vast expanse of yellow silk, but was still sitting up in one of the room's two chairs, a sturdy model built on the same custom lines as his desk chair. He waved me to a seat in the other chair before heaving himself to his feet.

In my own room I had changed into a robe of brown silk brocade--a gift from Wolfe--that was held shut in front by a belt that he proceeded to untie. A grunt of approval was my reward for shaving before I came down. He can't abide the touch of human hair, and if he had seen so much as a single hair or bit of stubble he would have called Fritz up to repair the omission. Normally I might have indulged myself, since even the thought of Fritz with a straight razor was enough to bring my little detective to full attention, but I had no cause to rile Wolfe at the moment.

After weighing my smooth balls in one hand, Wolfe dropped to his knees, moving surprisingly lightly for a man of his girth, wrapping his mouth around my dick even as he gave my balls an ungentle jerk. I grabbed the rails that supported the chair back as if my life depended on it. I had once--only once!--touched Wolfe's head while he sucked my dick and--well, the less said the better.

I tried not to think too hard about Nero Wolfe, the most brilliant detective in New York, kneeling at my feet and giving me a blowjob, or it would have been over much too quickly. Wolfe had drawn back so only the head was in his mouth, exploring it with the very tip of his tongue while running a thumbnail up the underside of my shaft. I shuddered and moaned, gripping the chair tighter until my knuckles were probably turning white. Wolfe gave a pleased sort of hum and swallowed me to the roots again.

It couldn't last long after that and it didn't. With a shout that could have been heard in Jersey if it weren't for the excellent soundproofing in the brownstone, I came, shooting my wad down Wolfe's throat. After sucking me dry Wolfe sat back on his heels to watch me recover, his expression almost as smug as when he's solved a mystery that still eludes Cramer.

After I recovered my breath and wits I extended a hand to him. We clasped hands to wrists, one of the strongest grips around, and I helped pull him to his feet. In some ways that grip was more intimate than the blowjob had been: he hates to be touched and loathes being helped. He kept hold of my hand longer than he needed to as well.

After a moment of standing there with arms clasped I drew him over to the bed. He allowed me to push him down onto the black silk coverlet. The yellow silk of his pajamas was nicely tented out in front, my only hint of his continuing interest in that night's performance. I ignored it for the moment in favor of stroking his chest through the cloth, playing with his nipples, teasing them to hard little nubs.

You might think that this is when the yellow silk gets removed from the picture, but the truth is that I've never seen Wolfe unclothed, never touched bare skin below the neck and above the elbows. Touching him at one remove was better than not touching him at all, of course, but once, just once--

Wolfe is magnificently unselfconscious of his weight, so I was free to grab great folds of flesh after I had brought his nipples to attention, playing with it like a child with dough, tugging on it, molding it into hills, jiggling it about. When I thought I had him lulled into complacency I raked my nails over his breast, harder than I would have dared without the cloth in the way, drawing a small moan from him. I sat back to admire my handiwork, his flushed face and hands clawing at the black coverlet.

He wouldn't touch me, of course; I could touch him or he me, but the two together was too rich--and this for a man who ate hollandaise sauce on ham.

I slid down his torso to where his dick was outlined against the silk, stroking up the shaft with a single finger before tracing circles around the head. Wolfe gave a growl that probably meant "Get on with it, Goodwin," but he never talks during sex either. I obeyed--this time--wrapping my hand around his dick, jerking him off with the firm pressure he likes.

He came quietly, with a sigh that was almost a groan and an abrupt release of the tension that had been almost imperceptibly growing. (Almost imperceptibly--I am a trained observer, after all.) I continued stroking more gently until all the tension had fled and both his muscles and the organ in my hand were limp. Then I got up and left, shutting the door behind me.

In a few minutes Wolfe would get up, lock the door and re-arm the alarms, and change into a fresh pair of yellow silk pajamas. In the morning we would go back to dealing with the police, answering their questions truthfully without volunteering any extraneous information. I wanted to see Walker fry even though he hadn't killed Coulter.

Not directly, at any rate.

 

 

 


End file.
